


A Lovely Day For It

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A little canon typical angst, Because I'm Lur and I can't help it, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, Going for a picnic, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just the boys being sweet and a little awkward, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22433995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: A post-canon, love confession fic with a great deal of kissing, some teary-eyed moments and a plush snake toy. What more can I say?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 179
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	A Lovely Day For It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handlebarstiedtothestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlebarstiedtothestars/gifts).



> Better late than never, eh? Here's my pinch-hit holiday swap for the wonderful Handlebarstiedtothestars who asked for fluff, Crowley and Aziraphale in love, maybe going for a picnic. I'm too much me to be able to deliver pure fluff, but I hope this does the trick!
> 
> My thanks to Soso, Bucky, and Tarek for the beta reading and Janthony and Caedmon for running the holiday swap which has been nothing short of a delight.

“Time to leave the garden,” Crowley says as he stands, waiting for Aziraphale to join him.

They walk out of Berkeley Square side-by-side, heading towards another afternoon of fine dining and drinking. Aziraphale doesn’t take his hand like he had on the bus last night, he doesn’t make any indication that things have changed at all.

Crowley can hardly stand it, the casual indifference after what they’ve just endured for each other. He’s been inside Aziraphale now - worn his aspect like a skin, walked in his shoes, walked into a pillar of hellfire. Nothing’s the same as it was this morning, it can’t be. Crowley’s shoulders start to rise towards his ears as he walks.

Aziraphale doesn’t appear to notice, chattering away about the sham of a trial that Hell had thrown together. Crowley’s good mood turns more sour by the moment until he actually thinks he might cry. The sunglasses do what they are supposed to and keep him shielded, letting him have his sulk in peace. Of course nothing has changed, this is Aziraphale. One day of mortal danger and revelations that would shatter the foundations of the most fervent believers isn’t going to cause the kind of seismic shift that Crowley is hoping for.

This is Crowley’s problem, it always has been. He’s the originator of being given an inch and trying to take a mile. Aziraphale has always needed a gentle touch, a careful word, a decade to think. Last night he had been scared and exhilarated, never a good combination for rational thinking. They’d both needed that physical connection, that reminder that they were still here, that they had each other. Apparently, Aziraphale doesn’t need that any more.

It all feels rather too much like a night in 1967, a thermos of holy water, and a heartbreaking refusal. Crowley keeps hoping, keeps trying, keeps striving to be what Aziraphale needs. Even as he sulks and swears to himself that he’ll stop, he knows this is what he’ll be doing for as long as he has the ability. Crowley only exists to orbit around Aziraphale.

“Crowley, you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said!” Aziraphale snaps.

“Hmm?” he answers, eloquently proving Aziraphale’s point.

“Really,” Aziraphale tuts, moving closer to Crowley to let another pedestrian pass. “The least you could do is pretend to pay attention.”

His body is momentarily pressed into Crowley’s side, all warmth and softness through a million layers of fabric. Despite himself, Crowley shivers.

“I  _ was _ pretending. How am I to blame for you demanding proof?”

That earns him a little half-smile-and-disapproving-glare combination, it’s one of his favourite Aziraphale looks.

“You’re incorrigible, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, unbearably fond.

Then it happens, Aziraphale reaches for his hand once more and closes his gentle fingers around Crowley’s. Just as he has talked himself into accepting the continued glacial pace of their relationship, Aziraphale has thrown him for a loop.

Crowley looks down and lifts their joined hands so he can see them, he needs the evidence of his eyes to confirm the information screaming through his hand. Sure enough, they are holding hands again. His gaze travels up Aziraphale’s arm, over his shoulder, and into the beaming face of Heaven’s best angel.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks as if he’s confident of the answer.

Crowley knows that his jaw is hanging open, that he’s staring over the top of his sunglasses like an idiot. He doesn’t know how to put words together any more. All he can do is stare at that beautiful face and hope for something to save him.

It’s the smirk that does it.

The subtle twist of Aziraphale’s lips into a victorious and pleased little grin pushes Crowley to his limit and then shoves him over the edge. He has to kiss that look off Aziraphale’s face immediately.

His hands tangle in the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket as he crowds him against the brick wall of a nearby alley. The impact forces the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs and Crowley is on him before he gets the chance to draw another, Crowley’s sunglasses having vanished with half a thought. Breathing their shared air deep inside him, Crowley presses his lips against Aziraphale’s. It’s a chaste and gentle kiss, Crowley recognises the paradox in his actions, shoving Aziraphale against a wall just to kiss him sweetly, but he won’t take more than this. His want is too wild, he needs Aziraphale to set the pace.

Crowley is about to pull back, to apologise for this outburst and sentence himself to a thousand years of self-flagellation when Aziraphale suddenly comes to life. His hands slide around Crowley’s body, one around his waist and the other up into his hair, holding them together more tightly.

Despite himself, Crowley moans and Aziraphale uses the opportunity to slide the tip of his tongue between Crowley’s parted lips. The taste and touch of Aziraphale are overwhelming, more intoxicating than the finest wine or strongest spirit. Crowley can feel Aziraphale pressed against him from shoulder to hip, all soft warmth and reassuring pressure, it’s more than he’s ever dared to hope for.

Aziraphale’s sweet tongue coaxes Crowley’s into action, stroking and sliding against each other in an exploration of the wet heat between them. Crowley couldn’t have imagined this, the sweet delight of having Aziraphale kiss him back, enthusiastically kissing him back in the street like they’re the same as any other pair of lovers in London.

Crowley sucks Aziraphale’s lower lip into his mouth and nips at it with his teeth just as the grip in his hair tightens and sends a shock down his spine. He feels Aziraphale smile against his lips, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s wrought. Reluctantly, Crowley pulls away from the kiss and forces himself to look Aziraphale in the eyes.

Silence of the kind only found in London, that is to say not silence at all, rests between them for a beat or two.

“Azir-”

“Oh, my-”

They say in unison, cutting each other off.

Crowley grins and rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. He’s not being pushed away, not being rejected. He could cry with relief.

“Go ahead, angel,” Crowley says, holding Aziraphale to him so he can feel the breath Aziraphale takes before speaking.

“My dear Crowley, is this what you want? You must know that I’m on our side no matter what. You don’t have to do this just because you think I want it,” Aziraphale looks so concerned as he speaks, it’s as if he’s the one who just pinned Crowley against a wall to kiss the life out of him.

Crowley can’t help but laugh as he presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s brow.

“Angel, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“It must have been while you were kissing me,” Aziraphale suggests with a smirk.

Their hands loosen, turning the passionate and frenzied embrace into a more comfortable cuddle with Aziraphale’s fingers combing through Crowley’s hair until it resembles a messy bird nest.

“I want this, angel, if you do,” Crowley murmurs. “I think I belong with you.”

Aziraphale hums a response, kissing Crowley’s throat in affirmation.

Talking about their feelings has never been a strength for either of them and for all the ways that the world has changed, that isn’t one of them. Crowley thinks nothing of it as they peel away from each other and continue their stroll towards the Ritz without exchanging another word on the subject.

Aziraphale’s hand fits so perfectly in his, Crowley can only imagine that they were made for this, to be joined this way. It’s torture to have to part as they are shown to their usual table but Aziraphale is reaching for his hand again before they’ve even settled in their seats and everything is right again.

Aziraphale orders an afternoon tea spread that would feed four and Crowley chooses a bottle of champagne that is almost expensive enough to be worth the monumental occasion they’re celebrating. If it had only been averting the end of the world, the champagne would have been sufficient, but adding the importance of that kiss to proceedings changes things somewhat.

The waiter fills their flutes and retreats in the discreet way unique to silver service staff. Crowley is so happy that he could burst, barely acknowledging the man as he backs away.

“To the world,” Crowley lifts his glass towards Aziraphale in a toast.

Aziraphale’s eyes flick over to him, peering through fluttering lashes like a blushing debutante, before he picks up his own glass and returns the gesture.

“To the  _ world _ ,” Aziraphale purrs.

There’s so much meaning poured into those three words that Crowley can barely parse it all. He blinks stupidly, knowing it matches the daft grin that stretches across his face and finding that he doesn’t care a jot. Everything is right in the world and Aziraphale is looking at him like _ that  _ without fear or nervousness. Crowley leans back in his chair and sips the champagne.

_ So, this is what it feels like to be loved out loud,  _ Crowley thinks to himself as he watches Aziraphale select a dainty finger sandwich and nibble at it. It’s incredible, to not to have to fear, to not have to work so hard to get Aziraphale on side, to not be constantly looking over his shoulder and at Aziraphale’s back.

He’s so full of joy that he starts to laugh, something genuine and gleeful bubbling up from the pit of his stomach that lifts millennia of fear and anxiety with it. Tears of unadulterated happiness bead along his eyelashes, threatening to run rivers down his cheeks.

“Are you alright, my dearest?” Aziraphale pauses his delicate nibbling and frowns.

Crowley runs his hands up his face to wipe at his eyes under his sunglasses, catching the tears before they fall and worry Aziraphale any further.

“Oh, angel, I’m more than alright! So much weight has been lifted that I might just float away!” Crowley reaches across the table as he answers, covering Aziraphale’s hand with his own simply because he can. “Don’t you feel it?”

The answering smile is so soft and indulgent that Crowley itches to know the taste of it beneath his own lips.

“Of course I do, it’s  _ marvellous _ !”

Crowley’s heart throws itself against his ribcage, desperate to get Aziraphale to sound that delighted again. These little things that they can openly enjoy are going to be the death of him, Crowley knows it, but what a glorious death it will be.

“I feel like I can breathe at last,” Crowley says, rubbing his thumb across Aziraphale’s fingers. “I feel like I can finally relax and not have to hold everything together, not have to keep putting out fires.”

Aziraphale turns his hand over to lace his fingers with Crowley’s, squeezing gently and reassuringly.

“You’ve worked so hard for so long, my darling. Keeping us both safe, even when I was awful to you,” Aziraphale looks away, a shadow of regret crossing his sunny face. “You must have wanted to give up on me so many times, I wouldn’t have blamed you at all.”

As much as Crowley is enjoying his casual sprawl of relaxation, comforting and reassuring Aziraphale is a response that has been hard-wired into him. He leans forward, invading Aziraphale’s space with an insistence that borders on manic.

“No, Aziraphale, never. I wasn’t ever going to give up on you. I couldn’t.” He chokes out his answer.

“It’s alright, Crowley. I’m not keeping score. We’re here now and that’s what matters, isn’t it?” Aziraphale is painfully earnest, his food forgotten.

“I know, I know. I just,” Crowley sighs, trying to hold tight to his happiness. “I just need you to know that I wasn’t ever going to leave or give up on you. Sometimes I just needed a little space, or to give you time to think. I wasn’t ever far away, not really.” Crowley doesn’t remember when he took hold of Aziraphale’s other hand but he’s clutching them both tightly and staring into his eyes like he can convince Aziraphale with sincerity alone.

“Oh, I’m making a mess of this already,” Aziraphale frets, his bottom lip growing tense. “I was trying to apologise, Crowley, not make you feel bad! I’m sorry, tru-”

“Why? What do you have to apologise for?” Crowley is lost, the thread of the conversation has got away from him somewhere along the way.

Aziraphale extracts his hands from Crowley’s grip and flexes his fingers. With a flash of guilt, Crowley realises how tightly he’s been holding on to Aziraphale.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins, having composed himself once more, “I’ve noticed that you have a tendency to do this, to absorb blame and put everyone else’s feelings before your own. Well, my feelings, at least.”

Crowley’s cheeks are growing warm, Aziraphale is looking at him so directly that it’s almost a physical pressure.

“I don’t,” Crowley protests, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

“Hush, now,” Aziraphale soothes, picking up one of Crowley’s hands and kissing his knuckles. “You’ve spent so long looking after me, my love. I’m grateful for it, grateful that you’ve stuck by me no matter how I’ve pushed you away. It would have been easier for you to give up on me a long time ago.”

Crowley feels the crumbling clifftop beneath his feet, the sensation of nothingness just below him if only he could take that step and fly. Aziraphale is changing all the rules and it’s leaving Crowley disorientated.

“I needed you, I  _ need _ you. You’re the only one in the whole universe who could understand me. If I- oh, angel- if I gave up on you then- then-” Crowley trails off, unable to find the words.

“You couldn’t give up on me because you know what that feels like.” Aziraphale strikes the heart of the matter with uncanny accuracy.

It’s all Crowley can do to nod, recognising the truth of Aziraphale’s words as he hears them. All those years ago, long before he knew Aziraphale as the funny, fussy, gentle bastard that he is, Crowley had seen an angel who had doubt and questions. Every time that Aziraphale had fretted about what Hell might do to Crowley if they were discovered, Crowley had been fearing for Aziraphale’s divinity.

Crowley’s worries have always centred around the idea of Aziraphale being cast out of Heaven before he was ready. In Eden, Aziraphale had defied God and shown that he was able to think about and question the motives of those above him. As much as it’s in Crowley’s nature to poke and tease, he knew, from that day on, that he would do whatever he could to protect Aziraphale from the pain of Falling.

It took him a while and a few false starts to work out the best approach, Aziraphale was easily spooked and prone to dramatics when under pressure, but after a dinner of oysters in Rome, Crowley had recognised that the one thing that Aziraphale needed above all else was a friend. Heaven wouldn’t tolerate an angel like Aziraphale forever, but Aziraphale would need to see their manipulative and abusive tactics for himself before he could choose to leave. Crowley could only be the support and the promise of a soft place to land for when it happened.

True, Crowley had anticipated a gradual move away from Heaven rather than a sudden and dramatic Fall; but when Armageddon had begun to loom, the matter became rather more urgent.

Eleven years of trying to keep Aziraphale focused, of lying to Hell, of soothing all Aziraphale’s worries about whether they were doing the right thing, it had all taken its toll on Crowley. They had been the hardest eleven years of his entire, lengthy existence.

It’s one thing to know this, to feel in the bones of him that he’s been barely holding himself together for longer than he cares to think about. It’s quite another to have Aziraphale spell it all out for him, to recognise Crowley's struggles and  _ apologise _ for his part in them.

He’s so consumed by his thoughts, Crowley misses the rest of their meal. He doesn’t know who paid the bill or how they got back to the bookshop. He can’t remember taking off his shoes or how he got wrapped in a blanket but he’s lying on the sofa in Aziraphale’s back room. Aziraphale is beside him, sitting on his haunches and petting him gently.

“There you are, dear,” Aziraphale croons. “Back with us at last.”

Crowley’s head swims as he sits up, the room pitching around him in a way he doesn’t understand. There’s a firm hand on his shoulder holding on to him, pressing him back down just as his vision begins to darken at the edges.

“Don’t try to sit up yet, Crowley.”

He slumps back, his head hitting a soft pillow instead of the solid wood he expects.

“What happened?” Crowley asks, admitting to himself that he might have been in a state a touch more severe than merely lost in thought.

Aziraphale tugs on his waistcoat with one hand, keeping the other on Crowley’s shoulder, and chews his bottom lip for a moment. Crowley’s fears start to amplify in the face of Aziraphale’s fretting.

“My darling, I believe you had a panic attack. I’m not sure that going over the specifics is particularly wise at this juncture. When I recognised what was happening, I brought us back here and tried to get you comfortable.”

As Aziraphale speaks, Crowley’s face grows warmer and warmer. He must have made such a fool of himself, and over something so inconsequential. By the time that Aziraphale has finished, Crowley has pulled the blanket up over his head and is hiding.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters from under his fuzzy shield. “You shouldn’t have to look after me like that.”

The sofa bows under additional weight indicating that Aziraphale has moved to sit beside him.

“You know, you’ve said some truly stupid things during the time I’ve known you,” says Aziraphale, as if he’s reminiscing about pleasant memories. “I thought nothing would ever top the time you told me that you thought tortoises could take off their shells. But I was wrong because the idea that you shouldn’t be looked after is so laughably stupid. I think your head must be full of sawdust.”

Crowley pulls the blanket down enough to peer at Aziraphale only to find him smiling like a summer’s day.

“’M not stupid,” Crowley protests weakly.

“Of course you aren’t, you’re brilliantly clever and I wouldn’t stand to hear anyone say different,” Aziraphale soothes, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair now that it’s exposed again. “But you do say some outrageously stupid things.”

It’s hard enough to be angry with Aziraphale when he’s looking so happy and relaxed, and the added complication of the way he’s stroking Crowley’s hair really stack the odds in Aziraphale's favour.

“I just don’t think it’s right, is all.”

Aziraphale leans down to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

“Someone has to look after you, dear. I consider it an honour.”

And what can he say to that? How is Crowley supposed to form any kind of coherent defence in the face of such loving softness and unabashed affection? He settles for a sort of sulky mumble and sinks back a bit further into the cushions.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale is a picture of concern which forces Crowley to actually consider his answer instead of deflecting.

“A bit dizzy, if I’m honest.”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful for a moment before slapping his hands to his thighs and making to stand.

“A nice cup of tea will help, I’m sure.” He moves away to put the kettle on and Crowley’s whole side feels cold with the absence of him.

Tea does help, it turns out. So does a solid ten minutes spent wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley starts to think that maybe he could get used to this new normal, one where he doesn’t have to worry constantly about who might be watching.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks from where he’s curled against Aziraphale’s side.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale has been petting Crowley’s back for the better part of an hour without making a fuss once.

“I love you,” Crowley says it easily, not tripping over a single letter or stammering incoherently.

Aziraphale hugs him a little tighter, holding Crowley close as he presses a kiss into Crowley’s hair.

“I love you, too. Always have, really.”

Crowley thinks he might be glowing with happiness at this simple exchange. There’s no hesitancy or fear from Aziraphale, he just says the words and he means them. No one has ever been as lucky or as loved as Crowley is in this moment, he decides.

Sunlight seeps in through a crack in the blinds and crawls across his face before gradually touching Crowley’s eyes, waking him reasonably gently. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep at the bookshop, but Aziraphale had been so warm and the events of the day had been rather more taxing than he’d anticipated so he’d given in to the draw of unconsciousness around midnight.

Aziraphale isn’t on the sofa any more, Crowley knows that he shouldn’t be surprised by this. He’s been asleep for hours and he can hardly expect Aziraphale to wait until his services as a pillow are no longer desired. Still, his absence is noted with a pang of melancholy and the ghosts of self-doubt. With a stretch and a groan, Crowley sits up and tucks his feet under himself, looking around the small private space.

There’s no sign of Aziraphale around the parts of the bookshop visible from Crowley’s vantage point either. Even with a hundred or more possible harmless explanations for his absence, Crowley’s throat starts to tighten in panic.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Aziraphale’s voice precedes him by just a few seconds. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, my love.”

He leans against the edge of his desk and looks at Crowley as if he might break from being observed too keenly.

“Nah, you’re fine. Think the sun woke me up.” Crowley stretches his back and arms as he speaks, enjoying the feeling of his relaxed muscles.

Aziraphale steps closer, his hands held behind his back. Crowley can still see the twist and fidget of his arms betraying the fretful hand-wringing that Aziraphale is so prone to. He’s got something on his mind and the anxious feeling in Crowley’s chest settles in for a longer visit.

“May I sit?” Aziraphale asks, nodding towards the sofa.

Crowley shuffles along the seat, making room.

“Dunno why you asked, angel. It’s your sofa, your shop.” Crowley shrugs as Aziraphale sits beside him.

He tries to project a calm indifference that lasts exactly three seconds which is the amount of time it takes for Aziraphale to settle on the sofa and relax enough to press his thigh against Crowley’s calf where it’s tucked under him. Crowley melts, becoming functionally boneless and shifting his weight to lean into Aziraphale’s side.

“Oh!” Aziraphale seems pleasantly surprised by Crowley’s sudden affection, lifting his arm to hug Crowley closer to him.

“Missed you, is that OK?” Crowley asks, not daring to look up Aziraphale’s face for fear of seeing rejection or uncertainty.

Instead, a kiss is pressed into his hair and the arm around him squeezes a little tighter.

“Oh, my dear. How can you ask such a thing?” Emotion chokes Aziraphale’s voice. “You can’t know how delighted I am to have you want me like this.”

Satisfied, Crowley smiles into Aziraphale’s chest and savours the catch of worn velvet under his cheek. Aziraphale is warmth and comfort and  _ home  _ in a way that nothing ever has been before. Nothing has relaxed Crowley like the simple press of Aziraphale’s arm about his shoulders or his hand rubbing up and down his back. Better still, Aziraphale's fretfulness appears to ease as soon as Crowley is snuggled against him. He thinks he could stay like this forever. 

“Well, this is lovely but we can’t really stay like this all day, can we?” Aziraphale asks, clearly not expecting an answer.

Crowley grumbles in protest, muffling his disagreement in the softness of Aziraphale.

“What would you say to a day trip?” The last remnants of Aziraphale's earlier anxiety is woven through his question and Crowley knows that he’s going to give Aziraphale anything he wants, without question.

“Got a destination in mind? Or was this more of a nebulous idea to be discussed?” Crowley lifts his head enough to see the expression on Aziraphale’s face.

“I rather thought that it might be nice to go to the coast for the day, if you’re amenable of course.”

“Oh, if I’m amenable?” Crowley can’t help but mock Aziraphale’s formal language and affected little quirks, they both understand the role it plays in Crowley’s overall acceptance of kindness or consideration and Aziraphale has never truly taken offence at it.

As it happens, Crowley is extremely amenable to the plan and only insists on a cup of coffee before heading out for the day. Aziraphale produces a classic wicker picnic basket from somewhere and insists on carrying it out to the Bentley which is parked exactly where they both expect it to be, despite having been left at Crowley’s place the previous day.

“East or south, angel? Is there any particular bit of coastline you’d like to see today?” Crowley asks once they are settled in the car.

Aziraphale looks thoughtful, apparently considering his options.

“South, I think. Sussex, perhaps?”

“Sounds good to me, love.” Crowley starts the engine and pulls out into traffic without another word.

The drive is largely uneventful except for the fact that Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s hand in the first instant that he releases the gear stick. For the remainder of the drive, the Bentley has to deal with miraculous gear shifts as Crowley won’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand for anything less than a second Armageddon.

Crowley parks along the seafront in Brighton, just east of the Palace Pier. Aziraphale squeezes his fingers gently and kisses his knuckles before breaking their point of connection and getting out of the car. Crowley sits for a moment longer, looking at his hand and wondering how such simple gestures could have caused his heart to pound so violently.

The air is warm when Crowley gets out of the Bentley, a gentle breeze keeping the worst of the August heat away. It’s a truly wonderful day in so many ways, Crowley’s spirits are immediately lifted. He locks the car and casts his eyes about their surroundings, scanning the horizon and the area immediately around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is standing a few metres away, staring out at the sea and taking deep breaths. He looks serene as Crowley stalks towards him, circling around his back for a loop before coming to rest beside him. Aziraphale’s fingers slot themselves between Crowley’s as soon as he’s stationary.

“There’s no need for you to be so on guard, Crowley,” Aziraphale says without looking away from the beach. “Nothing is coming for us, no one is watching.”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest that he hasn’t done anything to earn such a reprimand before catching himself.

“Old habits, angel. Can you give me a little patience? It’s going to be difficult to unlearn millennia of instinct.”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand and turns his head to offer a soft smile.

“Of course I can. As long as it takes. I just want you to enjoy our time together.”

Crowley huffs and rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about enjoying any time he gets to spend with Aziraphale when Aziraphale’s eyes grow wide and his jaw drops open.

“Millennia?” he asks in a small voice.

Crowley curses himself for being so careless with his words, a timely reminder that he can never be truly relaxed around Aziraphale. He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant and dismissive.

“Someone had to watch your back, didn’t they? Might as well be me.”

Sparkling eyes that defy description fill with tears and Crowley can only watch, dumbfounded, as Aziraphale bites his bottom lip and reaches for Crowley’s face.

“What torture I have put you through, my love.” Aziraphale holds Crowley’s cheek and draws him into a kiss that tastes of apology and understanding.

Crowley gives himself over to being kissed, parting his lips as Aziraphale’s soft tongue presses for entry, and meeting it with his own eager caresses. It feels like coming home, like taking the weight off tired shoulders, like sharing a burden and finding that it’s far better borne with company.

Finally, Aziraphale breaks the kiss, easing its loss with a multitude of light kisses across Crowley’s cheeks and nose until they’re both smiling and laughing.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, Crowley.”

Crowley doesn’t have an answer to that, at least not one that Aziraphale wants to hear. Instead, he finds Aziraphale’s hand again and tugs him towards the pier.

“C’mon, angel. Let’s go stuff you full of sugar and then go on the fastest, most violently spinning ride we can find!”

They do just that, sampling the sugary delights of almost every vendor they pass until even Aziraphale’s insatiable appetite is tempered. He’s sucking the cinnamon sugar from his fingers following a bag of fresh doughnuts when Crowley’s self-control regarding his excitement fails magnificently.

“That one! The waltzer! I bloody love waltzers, angel.”

Crowley knows that Aziraphale isn’t going to say no, just as he knows that he’s the embodiment of every seven-year-old child at a fairground. Even the sight of Aziraphale licking his fingers hasn’t been enough to distract Crowley from the siren call of the funfair. With an indulgent smile, Aziraphale nods and shakes the last of the sugar from his hands as they approach the ticket booth. The attendant takes their tokens with no more courtesy than absolutely necessary and allows them through the turnstile. Crowley is far too cool to rush towards the ride, but his saunter is markedly faster than usual as they approach and select a carriage.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale begins once they’ve taken their seats. “I’ve never actually been on a modern fairground ride. They were all powered by steam engines when I last braved the experience.”

Crowley looks at him closely, noting the tightness of his mouth and the slight loss of colour in his cheeks.

“You’re terrified! Oh, angel, why didn’t you say so?” Crowley wraps his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders to comfort him.

“I am  _ not _ terrified, Crowley!” Aziraphale sputters indignantly. “I only meant to say that it’s been a while.” His mouth takes a turn towards the pouty and Crowley leans in to kiss it away, still unable to believe that he’s allowed, encouraged even, to have this easy intimacy.

“I’ll look after you, love, just like I always have.”

By the time that the ride starts spinning, Aziraphale is tucked securely into Crowley’s side and this gesture of naked trust is far more thrilling than any waltzer, roller coaster, or ghost train could ever be.

Not wanting to press his luck, Crowley insists that he only wanted to ride the waltzer and leads Aziraphale by the hand until they’re back inside one of the amusement arcades on the pier. Using Aziraphale’s apparently bottomless pocketful of change, they play all kinds of games and attractions. Although Crowley does his best not to influence the outcome of anything they try, sometimes his desire to see Aziraphale smile is stronger than his self-control. They end up with reams and reams of prize tickets as evidence of their fun, although they both agree that the prizes on offer aren’t really to their tastes.

After casting a quick eye over the crowds of families enjoying the last of the summer holiday, Crowley gathers up the tickets and makes for a man and a little girl who are slowly feeding two pence coins into a game.

“Hi,” Crowley catches the man’s eye before addressing the little girl. “I don’t need these tickets and I think there’s almost enough here to get that awesome bow and arrow set.” The girl’s eyes light up and she looks to her father for permission to take the tickets. Crowley hands them over with a reassuring smile. “I have a good feeling that if you use my lucky coin, you’ll get the last tickets you need.” He produces a shiny two pence piece from his pocket and places it in the upturned palm of the girl.

“Thank you,” she whispers, too shy to speak up.

Over her head, her father mouths his thanks to Crowley who smiles in return before heading back to Aziraphale.

“That was very sweet of you, Crowley.” Aziraphale links his arm with Crowley’s as they walk away. “He was down to his last few coins.”

Crowley waves his hand in front of his face, as if he can swat Aziraphale’s words out of the air like bugs, and avoid the praise. He doesn’t need to hear about what he just did. It was a small kindness in a sea of unforgiving cruelty that would ultimately make no difference, but he feels a little lighter for having done it.

“Shut up. Come on, I’m winning you one of those hideous toys from a claw machine as punishment.”

Aziraphale chuckles beside him.

“Oh yes, that’ll show me!”

To his utter disgust and endless delight, Aziraphale positively adores the plush snake toy that Crowley wins for him. Aziraphale insists on cradling it to his chest as they walk back along the pier, telling the toy how smart it looks, how handsome, how perfect. Crowley blushes so hard that his hairline disappears against the red of his face.

Back at the Bentley, Crowley opens the passenger side door for Aziraphale and earns a kiss for his troubles. It soothes his rumpled temper more than a little. He wonders if Aziraphale’s kisses will ever feel ordinary even as he knows that they never will.

“Where to next, angel?” Crowley asks as he climbs into the driving seat.

“How about somewhere nice for lunch? I packed a basket so just take us somewhere with a lovely view? I seem to recall there are some good cliffs around here.”

Crowley hums his understanding and pulls away from the kerb, thinking ahead to where he might find a spot that would be pretty enough without being full of humans.

He drives east, following the coast road out of Brighton towards the towering white cliffs that form the shoreline. Aziraphale chatters happily and Crowley allows himself to relax just a little more. Nothing had gone wrong, nothing had stopped them from enjoying themselves, no one cared about what they were up to any more. It was difficult to fully accept, but he was trying.

“Here we are,” Crowley announces as he pulls into a gravel car park.

Aziraphale blinks out at the sun dappled sea and blinding chalk cliffs topped with emerald turf.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful. This is perfect!”

Crowley’s halfway out of the car already, hiding his pleased grin from Aziraphale who is already far too delighted. He picks up the wicker and gingham basket from the back seat and gestures for Aziraphale to lead the way.

It might have been cold up on the exposed cliff top, the wind has nothing to dampen its bite and the cold stone offers little comfort, but the sun is warm and the wind knows better than to interfere in this long awaited event.

Aziraphale spreads out a tartan blanket that he had most definitely never put in the Bentley and pulls Crowley down on to it. Crowley hugs him and makes to kiss him but Aziraphale pulls away, banishing the sting of rejection by running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“My love, please. Let me just do this properly?” Aziraphale near pleads and Crowley could never say no to him at the best of times.

The basket is opened to reveal a lunch that might as well have been packed by the cook in a Jane Austen novel. Cold meat pie, bread, dried fruits, and cakes are all neatly secured inside with a good bottle of red wine alongside. Aziraphale smacks Crowley’s hands away and unpacks the lunch, opens the wine, pours two glasses, and offers one to Crowley.

It’s all rather theatrical, Crowley muses, delighted by the effort that Aziraphale has gone to just for a lunch. He wonders if it’s worth pointing out anniversaries to Aziraphale just to see how far he’ll go for a special occasion.

Then Aziraphale is giving him such an odd look that Crowley starts to worry that  _ he’s _ forgotten some kind of anniversary or special date.

“Crowley, my darling love,” Aziraphale’s eyes are shining with unshed tears and Crowley is so confused, he reaches for Aziraphale, wanting to pull him close. “I’m sorry for all the time I’ve wasted. I told you that one day maybe we could go for a picnic but I never thought we’d really get here. I have never been so thrilled to be wrong.”

Suddenly, Crowley’s sunglasses are too smudged and blurry because he can’t see clearly through them. He pulls them off and casts them to one side but it doesn’t help. Aziraphale is in his arms, holding him as tightly as he needs to be held.

“I didn’t- Oh, angel, never apologise for that again.” Tears fall freely down Crowley’s cheeks as he struggles to find the words he needs. How does he forgive something that never required forgiveness? “I love you, I love you, that’s what matters. I can’t believe you made a sodding picnic for me!”

In the unique bubbling laughter that often follows tears, there are kisses and embraces, softly spoken words and contented sighs. Crowley spends most of the afternoon with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, marvelling at his luck and counting his blessings in the form of freckles on Aziraphale’s face. Life isn’t ever going to be the same again, not least because Crowley finally lets go of the last of his fear of losing Aziraphale. He has him now and that isn’t going to change, not for anything.

For as many years as there are white cliffs at a place called Telscombe and late August afternoons - once a year there will be an angel and a demon sharing a picnic from a wicker basket and lying together on a tartan blanket.

  
  



End file.
